


The Creations of Grief

by amyfortuna



Series: Silmarillion40 [4]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Drabble Sequence, F/M, Five Stages of Grief, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-15
Updated: 2017-09-15
Packaged: 2018-12-30 03:12:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12099465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyfortuna/pseuds/amyfortuna
Summary: Nerdanel's creations reflect her passage through the stages of grief.





	1. Denial

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the [Silmarillion40](http://www.silmarillionwritersguild.org/silmarillion40) event on the theme of _subcreation_.

By the light of a single Fëanorian lamp, alone in her workshop as the host of the Noldor left Tirion, Nerdanel feverishly worked, her fingers covered in clay. Maitimo's face as a child formed beneath her hands, long ringlets of hair curling down, eyes upturned in wonder and awe at the beauty of the world.

By the time her boys were slaughtering Teleri sailors on the lamplit quays of Alqualondë, she had formed the whole seven of them in a row before her on the table, shaped in perfect miniature, just the right size to set aside and admire forever.


	2. Anger

Nerdanel picked up the sledgehammer and brought it down with vindictive, destructive force, directly on Fëanáro's fair, marble-carved brow. His face shattered beneath her hands, and she beat the fragments down, further and further until they were nothing more than a fine powder. She was shaking with weariness and grief, tears streaming down her face, mixing with the dust of the once beautiful statue.

She swept up the remains of Fëanáro in the dustpan, and threw them from the high window of the tower where once they had lain together. He blew away on the wind, nothing but dust.


	3. Bargaining

Under the light of the new Sun and Moon, Nerdanel picked the whitest marble, the finest gemstones, the fairest paints, and set to work creating a new statue of Fëanáro. He sat as if hard at work, a baby on his lap, eyes upturned as though inspiration was striking him at that very moment, a feathered pen in his hand, a notebook on his knee.

She carted the statue to the main square of Tirion and, ignoring Arafinwë's ineffectual protests, installed it on a bench beside a bubbling fountain.

"Remember him like this," she said in answer to all questions.


	4. Depression

Tirion was silent in the wake of Eärendil's advent; even the bells of Valmar were stilled. For the Noldor and the Vanyar went to war, ferried by the Teleri, and old sins were all forgiven.

Nerdanel went mining, and deep underground she wrote their names with pickaxe and chisel, hammering out a low drumbeat of tormented tears. Her sons, all her sons, five dead, and two left mired in darkness. There were no mourning-places for them in sunlight or moonlight, but here underground, she could weep for them, and cry out in time with the blows of the axe.


	5. Acceptance

Nerdanel built a small house in a river-valley near the place where she and Fëanáro had first met, a long age ago under Treelight. It was between her father's home and Tirion, but not too close to either. She formed it and furnished it just as she had once dreamed of in a youth so long ago it seemed impossible. Clay figurines decorated every corner and statues of all sorts dwelt in odd places in the garden.

It was hers alone. She served her guests tea in delicate cups she crafted herself, and smiled as they exclaimed in wonder.


End file.
